


Saints & Sailors

by brightpyrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Blood and Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightpyrite/pseuds/brightpyrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, a stowaway on Gabriel's deck, would've been already sunken below the waters by any right-minded captain. But Captain Gabriel is questionable, and his motives are wicked yet meaningful.</p><p>
  <i>Gabriel stares impassively down onto the boy, who's all grit and permeated stench, and he wonders inwardly how it is possible, that such potential lies within this dispicable insect.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints & Sailors

**Author's Note:**

> **update:** 12/24/2014; revised and edited  
>  **update:** this version will most likely be deleted later on and replaced with a better, rewritten one!

Gabriel draws out a handkerchief, wiping his face of the splattering seawater and brine that sprays into his face as his ship encounters another abnormally sized wave- he's shown the charter along with their current voyage progress, and he dismisses it with an evident disdain.

The days on sea drag by, like undoubtedly always, and the wind has stilled long enough for Gabriel's ship to practically entirely halt in its position. At night, the astrolabs continually confirm these notions, and Gabriel curses aloud to his crew, who are gradually becoming strung and stricken with scurvy. Two are already counting down the turns of the ampolleta.   
It's absolutely treacherous, and the rations are no better to any degree. Maggots are not uncommon, and quite frankly, it's better than no food at all. Of course it is; his nobility was already a putrid corpse waiting to be thrown haphazardly into the street gutters.

Ruthless as he is, no mutiny has begun its planning just yet as everyone depends on him for survival. And Gabriel depends on his crew for the survival of the trade when they reach the port. It is petty to wait mindlessly, and Gabriel does not; his ship is bustling and he easily orders commands off to the crewmembers. In the very least, he will be supplied with new, eager crewmembers along with other material in exchange of the bedraggled, and ignorant imbeciles he has got to work with.

"The deck must be swept properly, boy," points Gabriel, a certain swing in his tone, and the young child nods back, wielding the scrub viciously. And it is almost amusing, to see such innocence on a fatigued ship. Moreover, a ship of prohibited trading items. The dangers, all know, are exceeding high and no one dares to break apart from the stated rules to risk the evident slit throats.

The day turns dusk, and he almost unnoticeably lights his pipe, fleeting smoke wisps carrying away through the gradual wind. The setting sun is a common sight, and he no longer finds it beautiful, just a necessity willing to endure. There might have been one time where every breath taken was a gift, but it had vanished selfishly years ago, and he is not one to linger the past more than necessary.

"Have the animals been cacaphonic?" A gruff hum breaks the mellow air.

Gabriel reacts to the sudden words in a short minuscule jump, and hides it underneath a fluid motion of rolling his shoulders in a stretching gesture. The tasseled shoulder pads make the movement entirely unnoticeable though.  
Gabriel turns away just slightly. "Hardly. I dare say it has been the opposite. Tell the boys to feed them immediately at sunrise."

A noise of agreement is heard, and continues on, "Sails are picking back up, we'll hope to reach land by September."

"Good," he replies briskly, and that is the end of that.  
The night proves nothing, and the ship's log is no better the next daybreak.

He surveys the crew, and when he finds their work satisfactory, he drops to the lower chambers, where the maggot and rodent infested hardtack and rotten meat are stored and hung, blackened and crumbled. The permeated stench of spoiled flesh and defecation has already been a common sense, that he no longer notices the difference in the atmosphere.   
He starts a mindless prayer for, perhaps, better luck on the next voyage, but stops quickly, exchanging the silent words for a bitter, twisted, and self-deprecative smile. It is mirthless, but his spirit is pure. If he is not damned to Hell, he will come out and distinguish justice onto himself, but he is a vile, low heathen and that all means so very little to him. In which if he will not be beheaded for his thievery, as lack of faith will send him on death row to be hung and left out to dry on the disgusting lanes of Europe.

His luck was nonexistent, nevermore.

They have only been at sea for quarter a month, and everyone is restless, edgy. He fails to notice how he runs his palm over the barrel, scraping his hand in the process. He then feels the rather large splinter, and pulls it out in the most roughest manner, unnecessary blood begins to splatter the floor, before a certain pressure was applied onto the superficial wound.   
Gabriel holds it aside and away from his garb, would it have stained the fabric needlessly.  
He recoils almost immediately, when he hears his name called by a crewmember (who's name he does not recall) and he whips around, confronting the weary doctor, who's resisting an obvious urge to retch and heave large exhales.

"The victims. What of them?" snaps Gabriel immediately, subconsciously stepping forward as if it were to louden the news he were to hear in mere moments later.

"One has fallen dead, the other only faintly alive. No chance of him surviving when we reach the next post, I am afraid." Gabriel raises a hand to cut the doctor off.

"Thank you, I've heard enough." Gabriel offers a pressed smile, and the doctor dips his head respectfully, and leaves, his gore splattered coats swaying mockingly as he strides. There's a palpable pause until he's entirely out of sight, before Gabriel spits, "Damn it all!" because what did he expect? He's becoming too sentimental, he thinks bitterly, and that's his utmost weakness. A childish anger spites him, and he stamps his boot, grinding the heel into the accumulation of dust, sweeping up soil and prolonged scurrying sounds are heard through the silence below deck.

And yet, there's an obscene amount of noise occurring in the food supply, and Gabriel clenches his teeth at the thought of more vermin slipping into the knots and creaks of the barrels. He completely ignores the cages of exotic animals on the entirely other side, who are all dreary and uneventful; and only let out an occasional squawk or grunt. The sea-crazed young on board are the ones who keep eye onto the bohea, dusting away vermin. It is an amusing thought he is suddenly struck with, that perhaps, there is some _stowaway_ here, hoping to keep silent and feed off the stale grain until the ship has reached port. 

Gabriel certainly hopes so: he hasn't had a proper duel in such a while, might it be an infamous swordsman or runaway convict. The blood on his hands- both figuratively and literally- has dried and caked, and he wipes it off before unsheathing his cutlass in a swift and deliberate move. He stares impassively into the dark, collecting any signals of movement through deliberate creaks; there's a tense quiet that returns to him evenly.

The eyes seem to blink back, and he is forced to cackle. Perhaps the sickness has gotten to him, and begun to deteriorate his mind. He sheathes his sword away, and wonders whether his crew thinks he's gone utterly mad. This doesn't seem unlikely in the slightest, and he must admit, nothing ever does anymore. His lips pull back into a sneer, onto no one but himself, it appears. The darkness never appeared dreadful anymore, yet it's the wretched silence that is pulling at Gabriel in the most unpleasant manner.

"I am well aware of your presence, convict," hums Gabriel, "show yourself, lest you have no honor."

There is absolutely no response to his frosted claim, and it is tiring and not at all intimidating. The lack of excitement is shown through a sudden scowl, tongue running along his sailor teeth. "I may spare your life, boy." Undoubtedly he does not expect a child, but a shivering, near-dead man lined with desperation and helplessness widening his bloodshot eyes. Gabriel feels no need to step forward and physically intervene, when it is so obvious how someone cowers in the corner there.

His temperament leaks away in a steady manner, and he peers down the crevice; a faint outline of someone of adult figure, yet widely feminine, he concludes. Gaunt face and stringy hair.  
"A wench?" he utters, and shakes his head in a bemused fashion, "get up, girl, or I shall spare you none."

To his surprise though, the filthy stowaway obliges, shakily standing upright, her eyes leveling downward.

"What is your name, girl?" Gabriel presses.

The stranger's lips barely move as they speak, "I am not a girl." Gabriel has seen the signals before, the closed off signs of fright through the flicker of eyes, large movement of hands, and the locked knees.

Through the streaming light, he is right: a tall and strong body, and there's something compelling him to wonder, why shouldn't Gabriel enlisted him as a crewmember, instead of tossing him aside the boat, for stealing petty grain and riding the voyage out to somewhere new? The stranger is young, he presumes, and the son of a blacksmith, a strong possibility.

"No matter," he pretends to dismiss the large fact, "what is your name?"

One syllable and nothing else. "Sam."

He is somewhat backward, muses Gabriel, as he should be; not to mention particularly rustic and uncouth.  
"Sam," he repeats evenly, "what brings you here?"

Under Gabriel's scrutinizing eyes, he seems to bite back an evident response to this simple inquiry. But he does not try to test Gabriel's patience, to which he merely says, "Freedom."

The captain chooses carefully not to sneer at the stowaway's words. Freedom was a dry perception folks cried and dedicated their haggard lives toward, not ever assuming that this liberty they sought after was just a petty excuse for not having anything to live for.

"From what? The guillotine? Enlighten me, Sam." There's a peculiar aspect in his mind that assured Gabriel that this in fact was the boy's real name. It's disbelieving, and Gabriel (for the time being) chose to ignore it. After all, what right-minded person went by Sam, not Samuel? It's distasteful, degrading and something he forces to not push deeper.

This once, Sam spoke bolder, taking a sharp breath of musky and dense air. "From family."

How curious indeed.   
As if Gabriel could not relate to this himself, and he allows himself a short laugh, full of contempt and essentially self-loathing. Perhaps Sam could detect this aspect, however he does not note of it aloud, afraid for his life. "Family. I wonder: incidental manslaughter or beatings?"

He does not answer right away (Gabriel does not expect him to, anyway), but his expression is grim and contorted with tiredness and something rather vehement. Frankly, it it intriguing, and Gabriel awaits his response with composed eagerness.  
"Neither," says Sam, "it'd been different ideas that set us apart."

"Boy, you cannot disown your family just because they reject your ideas," heaves Gabriel, and almost as though it were an impulse, his hand rests on his sword softly. "Nor should your father harry you out of his land."

His ships had not been specifically designed with lined cells to hold prisoners, so it served as a bold disadvantage on where to relocate the stowaway- without going to the option of killing him and tossing the body off the ship entirely. Any premeditated murder committed by Gabriel had been acts of complete justice, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  
There was no relevant reason to end Sam's life just yet.  
There's a prolonged quiet, before Gabriel sharply speaks. "Alright. Come along with me."

Sam obliges, every instinct to rebel lining his movements as he pulls away from the barrels of grain. He is also flecked with filth, and Gabriel turns his nose. "Do you honestly rather live with the rats than your family? Piteous."

"Are you going to kill me?" Sam is bold in his words, though his actions tell otherwise.

"Kill you? No, Sam, I am not. I would hold you higher than that, I assure you." He wears a wicked smile. "Don't you?" The stowaway does not reply, as the question is rhetorical- he is a peasant assuming all his pains were the worst compared to everyone else, and that, in of itself, is woefully feeble.

Gabriel moves Sam's small bedding and little baggage to a further, lesser noticed wedge; a caged alcove tangled with torn spiderwebs and disgusting creatures, altogether. Yet again, less noticable.  
Though it would have been more accurate to have said that Gabriel ordered Sam to move his items there, but it was not a detail worth recalling.  
"Hurry, boy, I do not have easy time to waste on waiting."

"Why are you doing this?" The stowaway's voice is a reproachful rasp, lacking the sufficient moisture in his throat to function properly; the mere sound of his naïve voice is suffering to Gabriel's ears, but he turns to it anyway.

"What do you mean?" he reciprocates in a supreme fashion, as though he knew everything would fall into place no matter how it was aligned. To a degree, this was a perfect belief he held, and yet, he could not properly answer Sam's or his own question formally. "I am a just man, and I will see your voyage through. That is what you want, is it not?" The words are little sharp than he would have liked them to be, but he executes them strongly.

It is unbelievable, indubitably so, to which he concludes that just so, he has gone mad completely.

"You're very kind," mumbles Sam, his eyes shifting downcast.

Somehow, in its own disgusting way, this irritates Gabriel, and he presses a smile that does not yet reach his eyes, beckoning Sam near, before wrenching him forward by the collar, his strength easily overbuckling the stowaway's.

"Do not mistake my composure for ease," he seethes, leaning close to Sam's ear before withdrawing, shoving Sam away until the boy is stumbling quite literally into the cage, ending harshly with the words, "You do not know me nor what I know." Dusting his trousers of grit, he steps away. 

The stowaway does not dare to comment as Gabriel shuts the door with a great heave and leaves him in the musty darkness, dust and light filtering through sharp cracks through the wooden deck erupting into the air.

Every meeting to personally give the stowaway his rations is brief not not brisk, as Gabriel lingers only momentarily, even bringing up dry small talk. It is a risky thing upon Sam's behalf, any misspoken word can easily bring him to the blade, needless to say. Every so often, Sam would receive a lash or thin cut along his back for trending across the line of what is allowed and what is not, yet it is all at random on what peeves Gabriel that particular day. They are certainly not lethal nicks scattered across the skin, though the severity depends on the time length of the wound festering upon his flesh, enflamed and otherwise sweltered and splotched red.

"Do you suppose you will die upon landing ashore?"

"Why do you care of what becomes of me?" Sam's voice is hollow, but the light in his darkened eyes have brightened relentlessly. "I'm nobody."

"Nobodies have good stories, I've found," responds Gabriel simply, "nothing more, nothing less." There is a subdued hesitance and he looks up expectantly.

"I do not wish to die just yet," reveals Sam, head dipping down to wayward his eyes away, meticulously enunciating his words, only shortly meeting Gabriel's firm gaze.

"A most humane wish. I cannot bear the thought of someone else killing you that easily."

He found it necessary to prohibit the crew from entering the cargo deck, saying he needed to clear unnecessary clutter off the level, and stupidly, they all agreed and obliged to his bizarre order, perhaps to the best of their conscience of not defying their seemingly unsympathetic, sadistic captain.

As easily as Gabriel is to flog Sam, he is equally empathic and lively other times, allowing Sam free of the alcove, though even so, at a great disadvantage to the sword that hung at Gabriel's waist; Sam in no state to fight. It has only been roughly two weeks, and the captain has no strong intention to kill Sam yet- in contrast, Sam has lost track of time entirely, a priority of food and water front of his mind. It is then that Gabriel raises a question of background once more, in an underlaying question of complete mockery.

Sam does not pick at his meal, every section vital and sufficient to consume. He is aware of a chair dragged toward his sitting area, to which his head jerks up immediately, watching Gabriel nonchalantly sitting backwards onto it.

"Tell me, Sam, are you a faery?" Gabriel acknowledges him with a nod. "Is that why you ran?"

"What?" Sam glances incredulously down at Gabriel, as though he'd been ridiculed, but the captain returns the gaze sharply.

"Are you a faery?" he repeats, a monotonous flick of the wrist sends a studded ring off his index finger, and falling lifelessly lay onto the floor, in a lazy torque. "Queer." It wasn't unlike him to use thick slang, but never once like this- it was the only way to reduce one slang to another.

"What- no, no," he uneasily begins, adding, "I like ladies." Sam stoops down to pick the ring up, collecting dust along with it, and wipes it along the rim.

"Oh," a wicked smile replaces his bored expression, "a pity."  
He relishes the distinctly wild look that appears upon Sam's face; cloudy, offended, and befuddled, as he stands upright, and places the ring upon Gabriel's outstretched hand.

Gabriel scoffs, "I'll have you know I have not been convicted of sodomy, so there is no need for worry. And even though you could be lying through your teeth, there is no need for denial."

"I'm not denying anything."

"Oh, alright. No need to get into a hissy-fit, anyway. Until dusk, Sam." He pulls away from the chair and steps away toward the steep stair up to the lower deck, not noticing a certain entertained loose smirk floundering on his face, until a particularly somber crewman points it out, his eyes sunken and cheeks drooping with fatigue. He is positively disgruntled, and Gabriel can quickly deduct more than a few nights of lost sleep have been consistent with this man.

"You're looking oddly upbeat."

"Oh, somebody has got to be on this damn ship," chides Gabriel, but his eyes flicker away to the commotion afar, and it is an immediate reaction he feels deep within, his stomach clenching with an agony he did not need at all. And it must be equivalent to a curved knife into the stomach because the emotion is twisting in his abdomen in a sick way. "Damn it," is all that is haggardly insinuated as a result, because what else must be said has already been spoken. His gaze focuses sharply and he only watches from a distance, as a body, wrapped in splotched sheets and rope, is heaved upward, given good blessings (it is apparent some crewmembers still hold their faith above), and dished with a firm forward shove, the deceased figure plunged into the ocean without a second grasp.

He is silent, unknownst what to then say, but his nails dig into the flesh of his palm deeply, leaving sharp, red marks in its place.  
The crew is silent for several short pauses, and mutterings to return to their posts arise, scattering them like mice during a cleaning season- as though the event was so very mundane enough to cleanse away, becoming disinterested on such sharp notices.

That same day, as it draws to a close signaled by the drop of the sun becoming submerged underneath the earth and sea at the horizon, Gabriel shaves for the first time in a long while, brandishing the rusty razor in slow and unskillful deliberations until his facial hair is gone and down the basin, long forgotten. It is a true miracle how he does not cut himself terribly bad, though a side of him wishes differently.  
He gazes into the scratched and stained mirror, judging his appearance to the degree where he had no clue on whether he was decent or not, sighting so many petty variables and factors coming into play, and he leaves the washroom with a shuffle, not bothering to clean up after himself.

"You must be well," observes the navigator later, nodding to Gabriel who is on a last swift check, who in reply scowls.

"Pay attention," he viciously snaps, "we might as well be off the charter with your vague piloting."

\--

It's raining profusely and relentlessly; the water pooling between knots in the wooden boards of the dock are almost peculiar and he looks at them with a slight fascination, before his attention resorts back to the young man who stood now. The air smells thickly of salt and brine but he inhales deeply, feeling a sort of content within the matter that the voyage was wholly victorious in its winded journey.

"Here is where we must depart." Gabriel peers at him, who continues to stand there as though entirely lost and mystified he had actually reached his destination. As they both face each other, Gabriel decides it worthy to ask, "Are you sure you would not rather become part of my crew?"

"No." Sam is unnaturally defiant in his answer, and it nearly unnerves Gabriel, who lets out a huffing breath, that is all good-natured and fine.

"Why do you not kill me?"

"Because I hold you higher than that," prompts Gabriel, testily, drawing a tongue over his dry lips.

"Why?"

"I want to see you succeed, what more do you want?" It is a bitterly honest wish, though Gabriel doubts it will occur. Perhaps in a twisted sense, it was a lesson to be throroughly permeated into by doing, that family is much more than to be dusted aside. He recalls the vehemency Sam sent through his words in the past, and he concurs it as absolute ridiculous.

"That can not be all. There's too many questions. You don't know me!" Sam screams over the noise of the constant shower of rain, and it almost conceals the tears that slide down the stowaway's dusty cheeks, but Gabriel sees them with perfect sight, Sam's face smeared with filth, and he fishes an etched handkerchief out his breastpocket, unfolding it with great deliberation.

"I have no need to know you. I also do not care to know you."

"Yet if I succeed to your standard, what then?"

"Then, I watch you fall."

Sam opens his mouth to speak, an indignant expression suddenly appearing upon his face, though Gabriel cuts him off easily.  
"We will meet again, I do not doubt it, Sam. You will remember me, won't you? Until then, au revoir."  
He tosses the embroidered fabric which lands short by Sam's shoes, becoming battered with continous rain.   
"Who are you?" is one of the various confrontations shouted toward his backside, though he dismisses them all, an easy twitch of the mouth appearing on his face. Waving a careless hand, he leaves with no second glance nor thought, in search of a tavern in town to rest for the night before the ship is loaded the next dawn.

\----

He stares apathetically at the curious, yet satifactory sight that hung at a further distant from his own kneeling. It has been months, years even- time has begun to affect him relatively less and less, and he watches the hourglass rotate and sift its sand through narrow bends in a sense of consistency in his life. His once noble clothing is torn apart at the hems, loose threads keeping his clothing on properly, and virtually impossible to mend. If the wreckage had not been the issue, it was the congealed blood and saliva that dirt mingled onto the fabric, that allowed his current clothing to be permanently dyed with putrid brown splotches.

Yet somehow, altogether it appears rather pathetic, a pirate kicked around and beaten uselessly, when he's bound for a young death nonetheless. A sneer-like smile contorts his face, a common twitch of his lips, and the viewers gaze with such incredulity to his evident madness, it only presents him further amusement.  
What loomed over him no longer seemed cowardly or frightening.

Hell is a fascinating thing, and at least he will recognize faces as he burns, cracking and splitting his worthless muscle to reveal the sin of his entirety.

He hears a shout- whether it was someone else, or himself, was entirely beyond him, because soon his mouth begins to move on its own, jumbling and spitting out words, cursed words that were never meant to be spoken. No single person bothers to shut him up- he is a dead man walking, anyway. A nefarious being, so commonly spat upon and generally abhorred. His only regret was refusing the keg he was so generously offered by his shipmates, and it now seems so tempting against his parched and ragged tongue.

And yet that is completely, irrevocably alright on his own behalf, because he does not die alone.

He continues to watch Sam's lifeless body swing from its hearty noose that is in the clear distance, continually laughing and virtually crying, all until his life is severly cut by the stained guillotine, which was only several moments after.

**Author's Note:**

> any mistakes and errors, feel free to shout them aggressively to me! extremely choppy and disordered, I am completely aware, haha!  
> I want to show everyone my way of writing love! it's very simple: I essentially cannot.
> 
> the reason I still think this is Sam/Gabriel is because they do parallel each other very much, and they have a lot of potential on interactions alone (but I wanted to keep things at least historically accurate)


End file.
